


The Sentiment of Sweetness

by Dedicate Kiwicrocus (cranky__crocus)



Series: SMACKDOWN '11 Round Two - Team Discipline [7]
Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Gen, Goldenlake, smackdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-21
Updated: 2011-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-19 16:11:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranky__crocus/pseuds/Dedicate%20Kiwicrocus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rosethorn nodded, one shoulder sloping up in a slow shrug. “Sometimes I need the sugar.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sentiment of Sweetness

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SMACKDOWN at Goldenlake: fiefgoldenlake.proboards.com

            Lark found Discipline Cottage nearly silent when she entered following her Weavers meeting. She had once been described as akin to Mila in patience (and had blushed at the idea), but had to concede that so many Water Weavers in one room could try the patience of a stone. She drew a breath and let it out slowly, patting the sage on the corner altar for some peace of mind.

            Rosethorn sat at Discipline table with an old mug in one hand; the container lacked handles and was inscribed with patterns. Lark had never seen it before. Emerging from the mug was the end of what she presumed must be a spoon, but if so it was the most ornate utensil she had ever witnessed: she caught the shine of what might have been silver, and the delicate indented patterning of an engraving. It would have been much more expensive than anything with which Lark would ever have eaten.

            “Rosie?” she questioned, soft to not break the silence too harshly. She indicated the spoon with one delicate circling of her wrist, imitating the motion Rosethorn used to stir the contents of her mug.

            The woman looked up and half-smiled, almost sheepish; she covered the end of the spoon with her palm and jerked her head in the direction of the mug. “Cocoa. Faraway plant. Too expensive to excuse my possession, but…”

            “But we all need to own and enjoy _something_ we shouldn’t, vows or no,” Lark agreed when Rosie’s pause had drawn significant enough that she knew the gardener would not speak further. Lark smiled and leaned against the table rather than seating herself. “I’ve heard of cocoa. Sweetened with spices?”

            Rosethorn nodded, one shoulder sloping up in a slow shrug. “Sometimes I need the sugar.”

            Lark’s lips danced into a smile. “You don’t say.” She laughed when Rosie nudged her with an elbow, an affected frown forming between the woman’s delicate eyebrows. Lark leaned to smell the concoction, and her eyes closed unbidden as her mind re-wired at the mix of scents within the mug: if there was one sent for delight, that was surely it. She slid onto the bench next to Rosethorn. “Are you feeling generous today?”

            One of Rosethorn’s eyes narrowed as she inspected her partner, up and down and back again, gauging her worth for such an exquisite prize. Lark was apparently deemed worthwhile, for at last Rosie nodded and pushed the mug toward her. The sudden scraping of stone against wood caught Lark by surprise, but she recovered quickly and stroked Rosie’s fingers lightly as they swapped possession.

            Lark lifted the mug to her lips and tipped, already relishing the feel of thick heat against her face—and that _scent_. It was nothing compared to the sensation of spices, subtle sweetness, and cocoa dribbling through her lips and onto her tongue. She cradled the mug to her and allowed the taste to travel everywhere in her mouth, swiping her tongue along her lips and teeth as her smile widened.

            “A noble woman once gave me a drop on my tongue when sleep escaped me. I can see why she offered merely a drop,” Lark murmured, eyes still closed fast. She hummed out her pleasure. Eventually she opened her eyes and replaced the mug on the table, where the glinting metal on the spoon caught her attention. She lifted it gingerly and inspected the engravings. “This is a beautiful work of—”

            Rosethorn had turned to look again at Lark’s second speech; she snapped out one hand and yanked the spoon away, splattering splotches of cocoa on their skin and habits. Her tone was a growl between bared teeth. “Don’t touch that!”

            Lark jumped and turned in one movement, one hand flying before her face and chest to protect herself. She gasped as she realised what she had done and gripped the offending arm with her other limb, snug against her chest. Her expression was surprised and apologetic as she gazed up. “I’m sorry, I—”

            “No.” Rosethorn cut her off and held the mug out to her again, features tense but eyes deep with regret. “No, I’m the sorry one. I overreacted. This was…was my mother’s. She died 25 winters ago today—raiders. Before my brother was killed. My father gave this to me; thought it would mean more to me than it would to my brothers.”

            Lark listened intently, always appreciative of the times Rosethorn shared her stories rather than the other way around. Besides, Lark’s heart had calmed; she wouldn’t hold the reaction against the woman, as she herself had nearly killed the man who first took her _yaskedasi_ veil without her permission. Some objects and the memories affixed were simply too special to be handled by others without expressed permission; Lark had unintentionally tampered with that connection.

            She reached forward and smoothed away a blotch of cocoa from Rosethorn’s cheek, and followed it with a kiss. “I can see why you need the sugar. If there’s anything I may do, let me know.”

            “Be here,” Rosethorn croaked; Lark passed her the cocoa. “Be sweet.” When Lark’s eyebrow began to rise, Rosie halted its motion with the barest of glares and the start of a grin—touched with melancholy, but present. “Not _too_ sweet. I prefer my teeth _in_ my skull and not a one rotted out.”

            Lark’s smiled small and only marginally sweet, imbued as it was with amusement. She placed a hand on Rosethorn’s and stroked it softly, surely, sweetly. “I’ll be sweet like cocoa.”

            Rosethorn nodded and glanced away, but pressed the handle of her spoon to Lark’s free hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! (:


End file.
